


A bird has never known ceilings

by Greyneurosis (Spylace)



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Sickfic, kind of sad, sort of maybe a death fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2560505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Greyneurosis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he admits to himself that something is wrong is when he finds bright speckles on his pillow and his nose dripping wet. His hand automatically goes to cup his chin but it doesn’t stop. He tilts his head back, drowning in the sickly sweet redness as his dad pounds on the door, yelling that Max needs to go O-U-T.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A bird has never known ceilings

The first time he pulls up short of breath, he tells himself to suck it up.

The first time he has trouble pulling Max to his knees, he thinks the dog’s gained weight. Max licks his face for the effort anyway.

The first time he doesn’t feel the slightest urge to take a girl up on her offer, he is tired.

The first time he steps inside the jaeger, he sees everything. Synapses fire. He feels so stupid for missing all the obvious cues and unsaid words. Everything is illuminated in a resplendent glow. It’s not just what he sees but Striker playing his brain like a piano concerto, pressing keys he didn’t know were there. Tears tumble from his eyes when he connects, finally connects, and the guilt threatens to swallow him whole.

His face is wet by the time he tumbles out of the harness like a newborn gazelle, all limbs and sinew as he manages to stand and discreetly wipe his face off his gloves. Even outside, he feels the intimacy of their fragile rapport. Something scratches at his throat, threatening to spill out.

In the eye of his jaeger—his now, all of it his, the drift, his dad, the slick petroleum of the relay gel, all of it—he feels impossibly small. His dad slaps him on the shoulder.

"Good job" is what he offers but he hears so much more.

The first time he gets his debilitating headaches, the doctors prescribe him an array of pills. Tells him it’s the side effect of the drift taking root in his brain. He is ordered to do what all the other pilots do and go lie down for a while. Chuck trusts them. Why wouldn’t he?

The first time static threads his vision, he adds another pill.

The first time he gets dizzy getting off the can, he leans his head against the cool tiles and lets himself think.

The first time he admits to himself that something is wrong is when he finds bright speckles on his pillow and his nose dripping wet. His hand automatically goes to cup his chin but it doesn’t stop. He tilts his head back, drowning in the sickly sweet redness as his dad pounds on the door, yelling that Max needs to go O-U-T.

There were many firsts.

His dad only gets glimpses. A pulse of color, feeling, the fraction of pain. He doesn’t know that the pills stopped working and sometimes Chuck goes around to the dock, to the seedier parts of town for something that will disguise the hurt.

The doctors don’t know everything. He knows that now, in between the puffs of cigars caught between his teeth. His dad thinks he’s being a teenager, doing stupid teenager things, taking solace in teenage worries when he doesn’t have to live up to the fact that he is the youngest pilot at the age of sixteen.

But he can’t get past the niggling fear between the grey mass of their brains.

Chuck is okay. It doesn’t hurt. Sometimes. Not yet.

It’s just a headache and a couple of black spots across his eyes. He barely notices when they’re inside Striker, sharing breath, vision, and everything else that’s important. They’re heroes. They’ve taken out three kaiju with no assist. He’s fine. Lives depend on him. He’s got to be.

It all comes to head when they stick Rachnid with their stingblade and it explodes all over them. The three hours they’re stuck inside, waiting for the blue to wash off, Chuck is beginning to wane. It’s only by sheer force of will he’s standing when they’re let out. By then, his dad’s seen enough.

He staggers in the arms of the drive suit technicians as he is pulled this way and that. He’s confused. Nothing makes sense after the disconnect. He chases after the vestiges of the link like it’s a rabbit and ends up with his fingers raking the air, Kate, his head engineer, pale as sheet as she stares.

“You have blood in your eye.”

Chuck begins to seize.

After that, everything comes in broken fragments.

He speaks Mandarin, enough to get by. There was a cute girl at the Academy he’d been trying to impress though she washed out in the end. But the characters still confuse him with their wide strokes and ink on paper.

_“Chuck?”_

“Chuck?”

“’m up.” He mumbles, swiping his tongue around his dry mouth.

A cup is brought to his lips and he drinks it greedily before a splitting headache catches him unawares. He drops his head on the pillow and it’s worse because the pillow is wrong. It’s too flat or not soft enough or something.

He hears his dad shout and a doctor is summoned to his bedside, holding a thin file like it’s a lifeline.

“It was the drift,” the man stutters. “The effect on a developing brain has never been studied before. We didn’t... none of the sims...”

 _Poor bastard_. He thinks when he sees the man wilt under his father’s glare.

He almost misses hearing him say “—Mr. Hansen. I don’t know how to tell you this but you... you have cancer.”

 

“How could I have missed this?”

The worst thing is, he feels fine. Felt fine before the doctor dropped a bomb on his head. Now he’s going over every tiny thing wondering if it had anything to do with the tumor between his grey wrinkles.

“We’ll get you a doctor. Shite, I was getting too old too jockey anyway. Let someone else pilot the old girl for a change.”

“Herc,” Marshall Fox pulls him aside with gentleness she’s got no right to. It grates on his nerves. She’s Sydney’s fucking Marshall. She shouldn’t have to explain herself. He wishes that she wouldn’t. He wishes a lot of things right now. “You can’t quit. Do you have any idea how this will look? After all that’s happened since the Mark-1s?”

“You’re denying him treatment?” His dad asks incredulously. “Are you fucking—“

“Ranger.” The Marshall says, “I’ll let that one slide since it’s your son—”

“—that’s right, my son and if you think I’ll pilot Striker without...”

“All I’m asking you.” The Marshall declares above the rising din. “Is that you spare some of us what you want for your son. Hope.

“Chuck stays. He gets treatment here. And Herc, you’ll need a new pilot.”

 

Chemo is fucking brutal.

He’s still reeling from the chemical aftertaste when Mako strolls in, sleek as you please. She’s got prezzies, dried ginseng and the kind of wasabi beans he likes.

Officially, she and her father flew in to discuss the liquidation of the Tokyo Shatterdome. Kind of like a divorce. Trying to figure out which jaeger went where. Unofficially, they’re here because Pentecost and his old man have been dancing the world’s slowest tango and if it wasn’t for the fact that he got Mako in the bargain, he would have locked the two in a room some place and thrown away the key.

Chuck is pleased that she came all the way to see him. But this is not a good day. He grits his teeth through her greeting, cringing when the cold air wafts over his left ear.

Mako asks him if he is well but he thinks that he passes out because suddenly, Mako is at the foot of his bed, holding her tongue between her teeth as she folds a square of paper in half.

“Whazat?” He coughs.

“It’s a paper crane.” She holds up a book with a pink cover. “We read this in fifth grade. Mrs. Meyer...”

“Sadako.” He recalls. “Right, the girl who got leukemia.”

Mako places the papery blob in front of him.

“In Japan, cranes symbolize longevity.”

She warms to the subject, something about folding a thousand could make the sickness go away. His heart actually skips a beat. Fucking skips a beat before he realizes that the crane is just a piece of paper. He’s still in the sickbay in the bowels of a shatterdome that houses three jaegers in place of thirteen. Today, tomorrow, it doesn’t matter. In a jaeger or not, he is going to die.

“...I thought it might help you get better.”

“How?” He snaps. “What’s a piece of paper going to do for my cancer?”

“It is not just paper.” She argues. “It will give you a focus. Sensei and I...”

Chuck rolls his eyes.

“Maybe we should try it on the kaiju if it’s so fucking great.”

But Mako knows him well enough to ignore him when he’s like this. Some things never change. The sun was hot. Water wet, he would forever be the petulant little brother to Mako Mori.

She hands him a slip of paper.

“Just try. Please.”

He ends up folding three before he passes out.

 

It hurts. It fucking hurts and his body broils with it, his thighs tensed like he can get away if he’s just fast enough.

There’s nothing left in his stomach. He gags on air, white-knuckling the wide rim of the toilet bowl as he sticks head inside and contemplates drowning in it.

Mako, fidgeting nervously behind him, pats his damp spine. She apologizes for the snacks even though he’s the one who decided to waste them on an ungrateful palette.

“I can walk by myself.” He hisses as Mako pulls him up but she won’t hear of it. She staggers beneath his sweaty weight as she maneuvers him into bed.

“I’ve got him.”

It’s his dad. He melts into the broad shoulders and the solid frame, body sagging under its own weight. Instead of dumping him in the hospital bed, his dad takes him back to their quarters where Max is waiting with a subdued air and Pentecost stands near the desk, his expression going flat after one look at his sallow complexion.

Together, they put him to bed. They make him comfortable, try, because the pills haven’t kicked in yet.

He tries to slow his breathing but his breathing’s too short. Heart too loud and there are pins and needles digging in his joints. Max whines and the sound is piercing. He curls up into a ball when he feels a broad hand rub his back.

“Thought this shit was supposed to make me better.” He complains, squeezing his eyes shut.

Nausea claws at the back of his throat and in the background, he hears Mako ask if she can get him anything. Pentecost says no. There isn’t much they can do at this point except to make him comfortable.

It sounds a lot like they’re waiting for him to die.

 

Chuck meets his father’s new copilot. His name is Adam Weller and he’s an okay bloke. He’s taller than him and intimidating but he loves dogs and he and his dad commiserate that Max has found love in his doggy life.

He doesn’t feel as resentful as he thought he would. Maybe he’s too fucking exhausted to worry. But he sometimes catches his old man watching before deployment—and he goes to all the deployments—and nods to show him that it’s okay. Saving the world is more important than the fucking cancer he’s got to beat.

But he knows, deep inside his bones, he’s not getting better. The doctor tries new treatments and it fucks him up more than the last. Once, he spends his entire day with his head in the loo and his father nearly rips the nurse’s head off for not telling him.

Striker’s got Matikepala. That’s nine kills on the old girl. He’s so proud of her. He ends up throwing on a jacket to sit at her feet and fold some more of Mako’s cranes. Sometime in between, he falls asleep and his dad is waking him up.

“Come on, you’re too old for me to carry.”

Chuck growls a little. He hates sitting in that thing. It makes him feel like an invalid. But he doesn’t have the strength to walk. And bed sounds really nice right now.

He swears he hears his teeth rattle when he sits down. This is one of his good days. Most of his days are bad.

 

The day the Sydney Shatterdome closes, he’s in his bunk paralyzed. He can’t keep his food down and he’s already had a seizure today. Last night. Chuck can’t remember. His eyelashes flutter in memory as the mattress sinks under his father’s weight. Chuck tries to push him away. He wants—needs—a buffer. He can’t stand the closeness, it’s like poison seeping into his vein.

“Want Max.” He croaks. “Maaaax.”

Max perks up at the sound of his voice. He yips, making sure to keep his voice down.

He was always a smart dog.

His dad clears his throat.

“When you’re in the drift, it’s like you’ve got nothing left to say.”

“You don’t...”

“We don’t have the drift right now but Chuck, I’m proud of you. And I love you.”

 

He folds cranes. Sometimes he only manages one. Other times, he makes a dozen.

Not a lot of people know that he’s sick. Just the medical staff, few who will be flying with him to Hong Kong. Marshall Fox, Marshall Pentecost, Mako, his drive suit technician and Striker’s crew.

The Weis greet him normally, cheerful that he wasn’t dead like the rags kept saying. Hu in particular tries to tug his cap off and see what’s under. Others keep their distance and throw looks of disapproval. But there’s one face in the crowd he hadn’t expected to see, dressed out of season for rainy Hong Kong.

Adam and his dad leave him for a meet and greet but he stays holding Max’s leash.

Mako had told him Gipsy Danger was being refitted for their last stand against the kaiju. He hadn’t thought they’d bring Raleigh _fucking_ Becket back.

Five years ago, when he was just starting to wet Striker’s fingers in kaiju blue, he’d resented the bloke for leaving. For turning his back on everything they stood for. Now standing across the docking bay from one another, Chuck is reminded, they’re not so different after all.

 

“Some pilot you are.” He snaps when he sees them waiting in front of the Marshall’s office like a pair of kicked puppies. “Are you trying to get us all killed?”

“At we’re trying to do something.” Becket says heatedly. “What’s your excuse huh? Didn’t see you jockeying in Sydney.”

Mako looks like she’s swallowed a bug.

“Fuck you.” Chuck lifts his lips into a sneer. “At least one of you bitches’ve got manners...”

His head snaps back when Becket hits him.

Max begins to bark wildly and Mako jumps in between them as his cap is knocked askew, the touch of recycled air on his bare scalp giving him another headache.

It’s fucking embarrassing but he’s bald now. His hair’s been falling out so he shaved it off to save himself the tears. Sometimes, he swears he can see the tumor pulsing in the mirror and it’s enough for him to consider a wig.

Becket stops because there’s no polite way to beat on a dying man but Becket isn’t so Chuck throws himself at him and tackles him onto the floor.

“Yamete! Chuck!” Mako wraps her arms around his shoulders. “That is enough.”

Strength goes out from his limbs. His jaw begins to throb belatedly. He thinks he’s got a tooth loose and Max ambles over, demanding scratches. When his dad pokes his head out the door to see the three of them on the ground, Chuck takes satisfaction in the way Raleigh shrivels up in horror.

Mako pinches him on the bicep, hard enough to bruise.

His dad stalks towards him and grabs him up by the collar.

“Oy!”

Furious blue eyes take stock of him.

“The hell’s the matter with you?” And gently shoves him down the hallway. “You’re a ranger, act like one.”

Disgusted, he takes Max’s leash.

“Come on Handsome, I know when we’re not wanted.”

As he leaves, he hears his dad say,

“ _And Becket? Touch my son again and I’ll knock your block off_.”

 

The thing about being a civilian is that it gives him time to think. When Crimson Typhoon and Cherno Alpha go down in succession, he has time to grieve. Cheer when Gipsy Danger cuts Otachi in half. Moan because Striker is just as helpless he is and now they’re down to one jeager. His dad is hurt, Adam’s injured and nobody knows Striker better than he does. But he stops just short of the Marshall’s door and stays his hand from knocking.

The door is ajar. No doubt left open when his father learned that he would not be allowed to pilot.

“I’ve had five copilots, one for each generation. It’s enough to make a man think he’s cursed. I’m not letting someone else pilot with me.”

“You won’t have to.” Pentecost rumbles and Chuck looks away, his cheeks growing hot. This isn’t meant for his eyes.

But the clock’s ticking down. If there’s anything Geiszler can be trusted to do right, it’s kaiju. He clears his throat and raps his knuckles against the metal wall. The two men break apart like a couple of teenagers necking in the closet.

“I’ll go.”

“Chuck...!” His old man face crumples and he looks away. He stands tall, pushing his chest out like a ranger in training trying to impress his instructors. But his chin quivers and his throat aches.

“I’m going to die. But not here, not today. Let me die in a jaeger.”

 

When you’re in a drift, there is really nothing left to say.

Adam finds him later, deceptively quiet despite his bulk. There are staples in his brow, bandages around his fingers and his thumb in a splint. He raises an eyebrow when the other man sits beside him but scoots over to make room.

“What’s that?” Adam asks, gesturing to the scattering of birds at his feet. Max brings one back when it escapes on wind. It’s stupid. The fucking cranes, all of it. But he can’t stop. It’s an addiction is what it is. Compulsion to fold, fold, fold paper cranes until his nails are ground to the quick. He gives up on crane number sixteen.

“Cranes.” He grunts. “Supposed to be good for your health.”

“I see.” Adam takes a crane from the floor and examines it. “How many do you have?”

Chuck shrugs.

It doesn’t matter. Hundred, thousand, he’s going to die anyway. He’s made peace with that a long time ago.

He takes the crane back and his fingers brush over the other man’s skin. It’s so warm and different compared to his own. He’s lost a lot of weight in the past few months. Veins stick out blue from his arms. Kaiju blue, the color of his nightmares and the tainted sea.

His bones ache. It starts from the tip of his fingers and travels down until he can’t stop shaking. Adam throws an arm around his shoulder, his splint thumb knocking carelessly against his ribcage. The light blow echoes in his lungs and there is heat in the pain. Not the persistent nausea he’s grown used to or the dull throbbing in his face.

He leans forward and kisses Adam on the lips.

Adam does not push him away. But he does startle when Chuck breaks it off, his face flushed red.

Carefully, he asks “Is this because of tomorrow?”

“No, yes, maybe, I don’t know.” He snaps out in quick succession. Max whines and puts a paw on his knee. “Everyone’s paired off.” Even his dad and Pentecost. “Seems unfair.”

“Hm...” Adam says thoughtfully. He tugs his cap off, carefully sliding it down his bare scalp and caressing his chin. “I used to watch you on the mats. You weren’t so bad for a white boy.”

Chuck holds his breath. “...yeah?”

Adam’s teeth are insanely bright against his dusky skin.

“What do you say we get out of here?”

 

The last time he gets suited up, he’s got so many audience they get extra security. People throw him fucking flowers. Adam pushes the sixteenth crane into his palm.

“You go out there and you fight. You hear me?”

He nods.

“Take care of him for me.”

Kate is aghast after one look at him. Her nostrils flare. It looks like she wants to kill someone. Despite himself, he slaps a hand across his neck.

“Not that!” She snarls, pushing him into a chair. “It’s a good thing you’re a ginger. We almost have the same color.”

Chuck coughs at the puff of foundation that hits his mouth.

“The fuck is that for?!”

“Looked in a mirror lately Hansen?”

He had, right before he got out of Adam’s room and the only thing different about him was—oh.

“There you go...” Kate coos. “You’re gorgeous.”

“It’s just a bruise.” He says weakly, since it was technically his fault.

“Son, you’re shaming our nation.”

She calls up the other techies and they start screwing him into the armor. Kate starts tearing up halfway and he doesn’t have the heart to ask why. His armor doesn’t fit. It hangs off of him like a carapace and they have to unravel the straps before they can fix it.

“You’ve lost weight.” Says Terry. She sounds shocked.

“Don’t be such a girl Kate.” He says thickly.

Kate sniffles.

“Fuck you cupcake, I resent that.”

Lingering a moment too long on his chest plate, Kate swears, “godspeed.”

He leaves the drive suit room for the last time.

Outside, his dad, Pentecost and Adam are waiting.

The last time he goes in a jaeger is the last time he sees his dad, Max, and everything he’s ever known.

Stepping into the harness, it’s so simple. It’s the easiest thing in the world.

The last words he hears is a message of love.

The last crane he folds is...

**Author's Note:**

> Being stuck in an office all day gives me issues.
> 
> Having to choose between two jobs and two countries gives me issues.
> 
> I have a lot of issues--have a tissue :]


End file.
